Accidents Will Happen

Chapter 4

             Detective Bucci fixed on the green tattoo snaking up Jessica Evan’s left leg into oblivion. “That tattoo. It’s …unusual.”

            “It’s Medieval,” Jessica squirmed, shifting her crossed legs,

             He rose from the interrogation table and gave an encouraging shoulder pat. “What is it?”

            “It’s a merri-coupala vine. Its berries make a love potion. Mrs. Trevellian found a book on medieval medicines. See the red berries?”

            He crouched to examine her calf and wondered how his colleagues behind the glass would replay this down at Salty’s Bar.  Reseated, he scowled fiercely, but spoke secretively. “You know, Jessica, you are in serious trouble.”

            She sobbed until one of her lavish eyelashes soaked off and fell onto the table like an upturned centipede. “

            “Jessica, listen to me.” He grabbed her two forearms and leaned in. “You need to focus here.” Obviously, she was still high. “Tell me the truth, honey. Did you kill Roger Trevellian?”

            That brought another torrent of tears and another dead eyelash. “No. I loved Roger. That’s why I got the tattoo and the love potion.”

            “You got them for Roger?”

            “Yes, but he hated it. He said my tattoo was ugly and ran out of the bathroom.”

            Detective Bucci pushed closer. “You were in the bathroom?”

             “Yes.”

            “With Roger?”

            “Well where else are you supposed to go at a party when you don’t want someone to barge in?”

              “But Roger left?” Jessica sniffed and nodded

              “And what did you do then, Sweetheart?”

              “ I went to the kitchen to find Roger and took the love potion.”

             “Tell me Jessica, where did you get it?” 

             And, what had the overstuffed wife of the deceased said as she plucked the last donut off Bucci’s desk?  

            “If you can bite it, chew it, and swallow it, I want to learn about it.”

Meet the author of this chapter:  Tippi Young is a retired English/theatre teacher, mother of 5, grandmother of 11, and great grandmother of 3. She breeds and shows the Lovin Laces Birman cats, writes plays and currently, her memoir. Her recent collection “Great-Gramma's Dirty Dozen” should be available through Amazon in the future. She may be reached at www.LovinLacesBirmans.com or at tippiyoung@aol.com.



Accidents Will Happen

Chapter 3

            The sound of distant sirens were heard as the guests stared aghast.

            Detective Leo Bucci sat at his battered gray metal desk with the chipped vinyl wood veneer. He stared long at the glowing computer screen reviewing the police report on the Roger Trevellian murder he’d just finished typing.  It was about as open and shut a case as he could remember in his almost twenty years of police work. But something was not right and it irritated him that he couldn’t put his finger on it.

The facts were all there. Jessica Evans clearly had the means, opportunity and motive. She was seen by dozens of reputable witnesses staggering from the kitchen holding the murder weapon. She had been involved in a torrid, not so secret love affair with the deceased.

He pressed the Page Down button and his brows knitted in suspicion. Jessica was higher than a kite on a hallucinogenic drug. He rubbed his chin. The toxicology report stated the drug was unknown. Those boys must be getting lazy. He patted the pockets of his rumpled brown suit and pulled out the shiny Android cell phone and dropped it on the desk. His wife had bought it for him as a Christmas gift and his kids had loaded it with incomprehensible apps. He dug into the same pocket and pulled out a small memo pad and the nub of a pencil. He made a note to drive to the crime lab the next day.

Leo tapped the Page Down button again and leaned back in his chair. The interview summaries were enlightening and confusing at the same time. Academicians sure love to hear themselves talk. He chuckled deep in his throat. In the projects, I would just get a silent glare or some smart mouth backtalk.

Leo checked the first name on the page. Doris Trevellian, the victim’s wife. They were married close to ten years. There’s the obvious love triangle motive but she appeared willing to tolerate the triste. It seems the man had been cheating on her most of their marriage. “But he always came back to me.” She declared defensively during the interview. He rubbed his chin again. The deceased was a well renowned professor and writer; the woman stands to inherit a lot of money.  She did not seem to have many outside interests beyond throwing lavish diner parties for the city’s top social circles. Although he noted she had recently restarted her Masters work on Medieval Studies.

He looked at the next name on the list. Conan Farrell - he was the last person to see Roger Trevellian alive.  The man seemed to have a perpetual sneer on his face. He’s a Professor at the same university and specializes in Irish Literature and Celtic History. Leo grunted. The man made no attempt to hide his disdain for the deceased. It appears they were rivals, and Professor Farrell was quite adamant in declaring that the Pulitzer Prize selection process had become purely political.

Meet the author of this chapter:  John Caligiuri writes primarily historical fiction and has a life long passion for history and literature. His stories emerge from his keen interest in and study of ancient  and medieval Europe and asking "what if" at watershed events in history. His writings are in the style of Michael Shaara (Killer Angels) and Tom Clancy (Red Storm Rising). The research for his books took him deep into the studies of the Roman and Byzantine Empires. John has walked the roads and visited many of the sites referenced in his novels.

Writing is John's second career. He is semi-retired after spending many years developing consumer electronic products. He still assists the U.S. Department of Justice as an image forensic expert witness.



Accidents Will Happen

 

 

Chapter 2

 

 

“Miss Evans?” Professor Farrell slowly approached the wide-eyed woman.  “Where are you hurt?”  

“Not me.”  Jessica slowly turned her head toward the voice.  She shook her head as tears welled in her eyes and spilled onto her cheeks.  The knife dropped to the floor.

“Who then, is hurt?”  Professor Farrell took a step closer to Jessica.  The pale, bloodied student looked like an antique china doll that would shatter with the slightest touch.  Jessica stared blankly at him.  Conan spotted Doris by the cake stand and motioned to her.  “Doris?  Please.” 

Doris threaded her way through the crowd.  “Where’s Roger?” It was typical of him to get into long winded discussions with colleagues about Irish poetry and ignore Doris or the rest of the world. 

“He was waiting by the door when I left the powder room.”  Professor Farrell tapped his watch.  “He told me that I took longer to use the loo than any old lady he’d ever encountered.”  He gestured towards Jessica.  “Stay here, and watch Miss Evans.    I’ll see if I can find your beloved husband.”

“Roger.”  Jessica burst into tears.  She covered her eyes with her hands.  “No!”  She uncovered her face after several sobs.  “It- was- an -accident.” The bloodied co-ed gasped for breath between each word. 

Doris shook her head.   A knot tightened in her stomach.   “I’ll find my husband.”

“I’m coming with you.”  Professor Farrell pulled the wife of another colleague over.  “Molly, please stay with Miss Evans until help arrives.” He moved beside Doris.  “Miss Evans, where is Professor Trevellian?”  

“In the kitchen!” Jessica wailed each word.  To Doris, Jessica’s cry sounded like the call of the legendary Nixie that she’d learned about in one of her Medieval Studies classes.

Doris elbowed her way through the crowd.  The knot tightened in her gut.  Her marriage hadn’t been the happily ever after she had imagined when she dropped out of college to marry Roger.  But, deep down, Doris still loved her husband - even if he didn’t love her.

Professor Farrell followed on Doris’ heels.  Both stopped short once they entered the kitchen. They looked at each other. Doris buried her face in Conan’s chest.

 

Meet the author of this segment: Patricia Embury lives and writes in Rochester, NY. An avid crafter, she blames her passion for crochet and knitting, which involves pointy sticks and string, for her interest in Cozy Mysteries and Christian fiction. She has a craft blog at www.thedizzycrafter,blogspot.com and channels her Labrador retriever at www.thedailywag.blogspot.com.

 

 



Accidents Will Happen - Chapter 1

Accidents Will Happen

Chapter 1

“I need to visit the loo.”

            “Please Roger … these people came to meet you. Not me.” Roger liked to use the word, loo. It sounded more cosmopolitan, he said. Doris Trevellian slid a covert glance toward the tray of hors d'oeuvres a waiter carried as he passed by.

            “Well, nature calls,” he sneered. Roger clamped her fleshy chin in a painful grip. “You can hold down the fort for a few minutes, while I take a pee at least, can’t you? My “wee, sleekit, cow'rin, tim’rous beastie.’” He released her and gave her a tiny kiss on the cheek as Conan Farrell, another professor from the university spotted them and waved. 

            Roger liked quoting Robert Burns. Doris became enamored with Burns’ work when she’d been Roger’s student.

 “But as this year’s Pulitzer Prize winning poet, they look to you for insight and inspiration.”

Doris cast another look toward a tray set on a coffee table. It had those little sausage thingies. “Roger…” She turned back to find him making his way through the crowd.

Doris checked her watch. Roger had been gone almost twenty minutes. She sighed and reached for a pink petit four on a cake stand. As she opened her mouth to take a bite, a blood-curdling scream ripped though the room. Doris froze, the delicate sweet falling from her hand. The vanilla cake crumbled, the pink frosting smeared under a man’s loafer heel into the rich Aubusson carpet. People moved like steer in a meat-packing chute toward the wide staircase of the Trevellians’ parlor. Doris edged her way through the crowd, finally coming to stand before the winding staircase.

Her blue eyes wide as a deer caught in headlights, a young woman, stood on the bottom step, a kitchen knife dangling from her hand, her low cut pale blue dress drenched in blood.

Jessica? The eager young student Roger recently accepted as his assistant in writing his next book …

As someone spat directions into their cell phone to 911, Doris found herself pushed back near the cake stand again. She reached for a lemon petit four, topped with a yellow rosebud crafted in icing.

She sank her teeth into its rich sugary heart.

It was delicious. 

Meet the author of this story segment: Pat Iacuzzi is a retired art teacher from the Greece Central School District who writes historical fiction. Presently she's working on a suspense novel which takes place in New York's Mohawk Valley just after the French and Indian War. She hopes you will enjoy the efforts of all the "round robin" authors (her Greece Library writers' group) who took part in this story entitled "Accidents Will Happen."

Coming Soon

                C.S Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien were members of a writers’ group called “The Inklings.” I would have loved to have heard what they had to say about each other’s work during their weekly meetings.

                “Really JR, can’t you find a better name for your Hobbit than ‘Fred’?”

                “Well C.S., how about Fr…Fr…Frodo?”

                There are several writers’ groups in the Rochester area and I cherish my writing friends in our group.  We’re a varied bunch - from a playwright to spinners of the fantastic; folks who write  historical fiction to young adult books; non-fiction to short stories.  Quite a few years ago we wrote a “Round Robin” story that featured time travel and a larger than life gypsy in a coffee shop.  One person started the story and passed it on to the next writer. He or she added more and passed it on until the last writer had to pull the whole thing together. We had so many laughs doing that story, we decided it was time to write another.

                After drawing numbers, lucky Number # 1 set the scene and passed it on to Writer #2 who carried the story a bit further. This proceeded through all ten of us until we completed quite a yarn. Most writers have at least a vague plot before they write, although some create a character and just follow where it leads. With our Round Robin, we had no idea where we were going and no one had any control over where it went because no one knew what the next writer would do.

                In short, it was great fun and we ended up with quite a tale. Starting with my next post on Friday April 5^th, I will publish each “chapter” every week for ten weeks here on Wordspinner.   I hope you enjoy reading it as much as we enjoyed writing it.  Until then...

 

 

 

 

My Mother's Newsworthy Pie

                I had three months between graduation and my wedding day.

            “Well, are you going to teach me how to cook?”

             My mother looked up from her book, her eyebrows raised. 

            “Cook? If you can read, you can cook.” Her face brightened. “Let’s shop for your trousseau!”

            That was my Mom – thoroughly modern Matilda. She must have been a great reader because she was a good cook, although not at first. She loved to tell the story of when her father in law (my detective grandfather who died the year I was born) decided to visit his son and daughter in law. It was during World War II and Dad was stationed in Ann Arbor Michigan. Mom shared a cottage on base with Ann, another soldier’s wife.

            The first thing Grandpa Charles did when he arrived was declare he had a yen for an apple pie. Mom pulled her roomie aside.

            “Ann, I have no idea how to make a pie! What should I do?”

            “I don’t know. He’s your father in law.”

            I’m told as fathers in law go he was one of those grumpy types, like a cop with no patience and sore feet.  But my mother said he was rather sweet in an awkward sort of way.  Mom grabbed her cookbook and followed all the directions. She did a fairly good job of rolling the dough into thin circles on the newspaper she had spread out.  

            “Fortunately, the newsprint disappeared as the pie browned in the oven,” she would say whenever she recounted the story of her first apple pie.

            As far as I’m concerned, that’s what bakeries are for.

             

           

 

           

Livestock

                 When she saw a mouse in her house, my mother’s declaration that the place was “filled with livestock” made me picture cattle rambling through the living room. (She was occasionally given to hyperbole.)

             I first saw our little mouse when he ran from under the basement door to hide behind the dry sink in the family room. My shriek made him do an about face and race back to the depths from which he had come. I stuffed a towel under the door, hoping he would give up and go away.   

             He didn’t. The hole he nibbled out of the edge of the plastic cookie container sitting on my kitchen counter was huge. Then I noticed a sesame cookie resting behind the back burner of the stove. When I told my husband I thought it must be a huge mouse to be able to carry food that size, he came to see. By the time hubby walked into the kitchen the cookie was gone – and that was in broad daylight.

            I bought every kind of mousetrap you can think of. Most of them grossed me out. I dreaded having to see its little head …well, you know. I found one trap that actually kept the dearly departed inside, hidden in a separate compartment. I put every kind of lure I could find in that trap but no luck. The only other thing I could think to do next was stay up all night armed with a shotgun and night vision goggles.

            Meanwhile, I kept the counters clear of cookies and even put the sugar bowl in the toaster oven every night. I planned to starve the bugger out but I think Mother Nature took care of our little visitor.

            We live in the boonies and our property butts up to open fields. On wintery mornings I find some mighty strange tracks in the snow. If I were a hunter I would probably know what livestock are roaming around our trees and under our windows at night; I can tell you the creatures are not small and they take big strides. I see hoof prints but those long sets of three horizontal lines, two up front and one behind, are pretty scary.

            I think mousie went outside searching for food one night and got et.